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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


■    6 


i^ 


©ID  TRIlorlD  Series 


SONNETS    OF 
THE  WINGLESS  HOURS 


^^ 


SONNETS   OF 
THE  WINGLESS  HOURS 

BY 
EUGENE  LEE-HAMILTON 


Portland,  Maine 

THomJis  'B.  :moshei^ 

Mdccccvii^ 


TK 


This  First  Edition  on 
t^an  GelJtr  paper  con- 
sists of  92$  copies. 


8529C1 


CONTENTS 


I.    A  Wheeled  Bed 


TO   THE  MUSE    .... 

5 

FAIRY    GODMOTHERS 

7 

IN    DREAMS           .... 

8 

TWILIGHT             .... 

9 

TO    HEALTH         .... 

lO 

LOST   YEARS        .... 

II 

FOR    THE    FLY-LEAF    OF    "  LE     MIE 

PRIGIONi"      .... 

12 

A    SNAILS'    DERBY        . 

13 

RIVER    BABBLE 

14 

TO    OTHERS          .... 

16 

KING    CHRISTMAS 

17 

AN    ELFIN    SKATE 

18 

TO    MY    WHEELED    BED       . 

21 

CORSO    DE'    FIORI 

22 

AT   REST     

23 

EAGLES   OF   TIBERIUS 

24 

TO  MY  TORTOISE  CHRONOS 

25 

THE  SUN-DIAL 

26 

II.    Brush  and  Chisel 

ON  A  GROUP  OF  FRA  ANGELICO'S 

ANGELS      .... 
THE  EVER  YOUNG   . 


31 
32 


CONTENTS 


ON   RAVHAKI.'S  AKCIIANUKL  MICHAEL 
ON  TWO  OK  SIGNORELLI'S  FRESCOES 
THE  WAIKS  OK  TIME 
TO  THE  SO-CALLED  VKNUS  OK   MII.O 
ON    AN    ILLUSTRATION    IN    D0R6'S 

DANTE  

ON     MANTEGNA'S      DRAWING     OK 

JUDITH 
ON    THE   HORSES    UK    ST.    MARK 
ON       A     SURF-ROLLED      TORSO       OK 

VENUS  

FADING   GLORIES 

ON    LEONARDO'S    HEAD    OK    MEDUSA 


35 

36 
38 

39 

4« 

43 
45 

46 
47 
49 


III.     Like  and  Fate 

THE    RING    OF    KAUSTUS 

SUNKEN    GOLD 

LIFE'S    GAME 

SOULAC       . 

BY    THE    FIRE    . 

LETHE 

HOUNDS   OF   FATE 

THE   "EISERNE    JUNGFRAU  " 

THE   SLEDGE 

THE    WRECK   ROCK    BELL 

THE    SILENT   FELLOW 

NERO'S   SAND      . 

MEETING   OF   GHOSTS 


53 
54 

55 
56 
57 
58 

59 
60 

61 
62 

63 
64 
65 


VI 


CONTENTS 


THE   RANSOM   OF   PERU     . 

SIAMESE    TWINS  .... 

Ci^SAR'S    GHOST  .... 

A    SPANISH    LEGEND 

IN   THE   WOOD   OF   DEAD   SEA   FRUIT 


PAGE 

66 

67 

68 
69 

70 


IV.     The  After-Life 


WAIFS   OF  A    WORLD 

73 

SEA-SHELL    MURMURS 

•         74 

IDLE   CHARON    .... 

75 

THE   OBOL            .... 

76 

ACHERON  

77 

THE   PHANTOM   SHIP 

78 

MY    OWN    HEREAFTER 

79 

WINE   OF   OMAR   KHAYyAm 

80 

A    FLIGHT    FROM    GLORY    . 

81 

FIREFLIES             .... 

82 

ALL   SOULS'    DAY 

83 

THE   WRECK   OF   HEAVEN 

85 

Miscellaneous 


WHAT  THE   SONNET   IS    . 

89 

WINTER   

90 

SONNET  GOLD 

91 

oberon's  last  council 

93 

IN    MEMORIAM 

95 

•  ROMAN    BATHS 

96 

SPRING 

97 

VII 


CONTKNTS 


TO    PHILIP    MARSTON 

OXFORD    . 

MUSSET'S    LOUIS    D'OR 

PROMETHEAN    FANCIES 

GOLD    OF    MIDAS 

HAUDELAIRE    . 

NIGHT 

THE    DEATH   OF    PUCK 

TO    FLORENCE    SNOW 

TO    A    HANDFUL    OF    MUMMY    WHEAT 

ON      THE     FLY-LEAF      OF     DANTE'S 

"VITA    NUOVA"     .... 

FAITH 

FUMES    OF    CHARCOAL 

ON   THE    FLY-LEAF   OF    LEOPARDl'S 

POEMS 

THE    GRAVE    OF    OMAR    KHAYVAm    . 
TO    MY    TORTOISE    ANANK6 
EPILOGUE  .... 


.  PAOB 
98 

99 
100 

101 

'03 
104 
105 
106 
108 
109 

no 

1 1 1 

1 1 2 

114 

"5 
116 

"7 


SONNETS  OF 
THE  WINGLESS  HOURS 


I 

A    WHEELED  BED 
1873 -1893 


TO  THE  MUSE 


To  keep  through  life  the  posture  of  the  grave, 
While  others  walk  and  run  and  dance  and  leap  ; 
To  keep  it  ever,  waking  or  asleep. 
While  shrink  the  limbs  that  Nature  goodly  gave ; 

In  summer's  heat  no  more  to  breast  the  wave ; 

No  more  to  wade  through  seeded  grasses  deep  ; 

Nor  tread  the  cornfield  where  the  reapers  reap ; 
Nor  stretch  free  limbs  beneath  a  leafy  nave : 

'Tis  hard,  'tis  hard;  and  so  in  winter  too, 

'Tis  hard  to  hear  no  more  the  sweet  faint  creak 
Of  the  crisp  snow,  the  frozen  earth's  clear  ring. 

Where  ripe  blue  sloes  and  crimson  berries  woo 

The  hopping  redbreast.     But  when  thou  dost  seek 
My  lonely  room,  sweet  Muse,  Despair  takes  wing. 


II 


OH,  were  it  not  for  thee,  the  dull  dead  weight 
Of  Time's  great  coils,  too  sluggishly  unroll'd, 
Which  seem  to  creep  across  me  fold  on  fold 
As  I  lie  prostrate,  were  for  strength  too  great : 

For  health  and  motion  are  not  all  that  Fate, 
As  years  go  by,  continues  to  withhold ; 
A  yet  more  noble  birthright  once  was  sold 

For  one  small  mess  of  pottage  that  I  ate ; 

And  like  that  king,  who,  prison'd  underground 

In  caves  of  treasure,  saw  his  starving  self 
Derided  by  uneatable  gold  all  round, 

I  fix  my  hungry  eyes  where,  cruelly  near. 

Are  standing  closed,  on  every  mocking  shelf, 
The  books  I  dare  not  read  and  dare  not  hear. 


FAIRY  GODMOTHERS 

I  THINK  the  Fairies  to  my  christening  came  : 
But  they  were  wicked  sprites,  and  envious  elves, 
Who  brought  me  gall,  as  bitter  as  themselves, 
In  tiny  tankards  wrought  with  fairy  flame. 

They  wished  me  love  of  books  —  each  little  dame  — 
With  power  to  read  no  book  upon  my  shelves ; 
Fair  limbs  — for  palsy;  —  Dead  Sea  fruits  by  twelves 

And  every  bitter  blessing  you  can  name. 

But  one  good  Elf  there  was ;  and  she  let  fall 

A  single  drop  of  Poesy's  wine  of  gold 
In  every  little  tankard  full  of  gall : 

So  year  by  year,  as  woes  and  pains  grow  old, 

The  little  golden  drop  is  in  them  all ; 
But  bitterer  is  the  cup  than  can  be  told. 


IN   DREAMS 

THINK  not  I  lie  upon  this  couch  of  pain 
Eternally,  and  motionless  as  clay  — 
Summer  and  winter,  night  as  well  as  day  — 
Appealing  to  the  heartless  years  in  vain  : 

VoT  now  and  then  the  dreams  at  night  unchain 
My  stiffened  limbs,  and  lift  the  links  that  weigh 
As  iron  never  weighed,  and  let  me  stray 

Free  as  the  wind  that  ripples  through  the  grain. 

Then  can  I  walk  once  more,  yea,  run  and  leap ; 

Tread  Autumn's  rustling  leaves  or  Spring's  young  grass; 
Or  stand  and  pant  upon  some  bracing  steep ; 

Or,  with  the  rod,  across  the  wet  stones  pass 

Some  summer  brook  ;  or  on  the  firm  skate  sweep 
In  ceaseless  circles  Winter's  fields  of  glass. 


TWILIGHT 

A  SUDDEN  pang  contracts  the  heart  of  Day, 
As  fades  the  glory  of  the  sunken  sun. 
The  bats  replace  the  swallows  one  by  one ; 
The  cries  of  playing  children  die  away. 

Like  one  in  pain,  a  bell  begins  to  sway ; 
A  few  white  oxen,  from  their  labour  done, 
Pass  ghostly  through  the  dusk  ;  the  crone  that  spun 

Outside  her  door,  turns  in,  and  all  grows  grey. 

And  still  I  lie,  as  I  all  day  have  lain. 

Here  in  this  garden,  thinking  of  the  time. 
Before  the  years  of  helplessness  and  pain  ; 

Or  playing  with  the  fringes  of  a  rhyme. 

Until  the  yellow  moon,  amid  her  train 
Of  throbbing  stars,  appears  o'er  yonder  lime. 


TO  HEALTH 

OHhai.th,  the  years  are  passing  one  by  one, 
The  Springs  succeed  the  winters  ;  but  each  Spring 
Finds  nie  where  Autumn  left  me,  and  thy  wing 
Touches  me  not,  though  priceless  life-sands  run. 

I  see  Life's  pleasures  lost,  Life's  work  undone, 
And  scan  Life's  waste,  which  knows  no  altering, 
Like  those  whose  eyes,  on  sea  or  desert,  cling 

To  the  horizon  which  engulfs  the  sun. 

Not  the  ten  thousand,  when  they  saw  the  sea, 

A  pale  blue  streak,  from  Asia's  endless  sand, 
Shouted  as  I  should  shout  at  sight  of  thee; 

No,  nor  Columbus,  when  the  dawn -breeze  fanned 

His  long-strained  eyes,  and  round  him  thund'ringly 
Rose  to  the  clouds  the  cry,  "  The  land !  the  land  !  " 


ID 


LOST  YEARS 

MY  boyhood  went :  it  went  where  went  the  trace 
Left  by  the  pony's  hoofs  upon  the  sand ; 
It  went  where  went  the  stream,  sought  rod  in  hand ; 
It  went  where  went  the  ice  on  the  pond's  face. 

Then  went  my  youth :  it  went  where  Dawn  doth  chase 
The  ballroom's  lights  away  with  pearly  wand ; 
It  went  where  went  the  echoes  of  the  band ; 

It  went  where  go  the  nights  that  steal  day's  place. 

And  now  my  manhood  goes  where  goes  the  song 

Of  captive  birds,  the  cry  of  crippled  things ; 
It  goes  where  goes  the  day  that  unused  dies. 

The  cage  is  narrow  and  the  bars  are  strong 

In  which  my  restless  spirit  beats  its  wings  ; 
And  round  me  stretch  unfathomable  skies. 


FOR  TIIK  FLY-LEAF  OF  "  Lli  MIE  PRIGIONl" 

TiiKRE  was  a  Poet  whom  the  Austrian  cast 
From  dungeon  into  dungeon  ;  one  whose  pains, 
Writ  in  this  little  book  which  ne'er  complains, 
Helped  to  raise  Italy,  like  him  chained  fast; 

Whose  countless  counted  minutes,  in  the  vast 
Silence  of  Spielberg,  were  to  be  as  grains 
For  Freedom's  golden  harvest ;  till  his  chains. 

Made  of  mere  steel,  were  stricken  off  at  last. 

What  of  the  shadowy  grates,  the  clankless  links, 

Which  no  lands  watch,  but  which,  like  iron  bars, 
Quench  Hope's  thin  flame,  which  slowly  sinks  and  sinks  ? 

They  serve  no  cause ;  they  rouse  no  patriot  wars  ; 

But  through  the  bars  of  shadow  and  their  chinks 
A  face  can  look,  and  twilight's  few  great  stars. 


A  SNAILS'  DERBY 

ONCE,  in  this  Tuscan  garden,  Noon's  liuge  ball 
So  slowly  crossed  the  sky  above  my  head, 
As  I  lay  idle  on  my  dull  wheeled  bed, 
That,  sick  of  Day's  inexorable  crawl, 

I  set  some  snails  a-racing  on  the  wall  — 

With  their  striped  shells  upon  their  backs,  instead 
Of  motley  jockeys  —  black,  white,  yellow,  red; 

And  watched  them  till  the  twilight's  tardy  fall. 

And  such  my  life,  as  years  go  one  by  one : 
A  garden  where  I  lie  beyond  the  flowers, 
And  where  the  snails  outrace  the  creeping  sun. 

For  me  there  are  no  pinions  to  the  hours ; 

Compared  with  them,  the  snails  like  racers  run : 
Wait  but  Death's  night ;  and,  lo,  the  great  ball  lowers 


13 


RIVER  BABBI.K 


THE  wreathing  of  my  rhymes  has  helped  to  chase 
Away  despair  from  many  a  wingless  day; 
And  in  the  corners  of  my  heart  I  pray 
That  they  may  last,  or  leave  at  least  some  trace : 

Yet  wpuld  I  tear  them  all,  could  that  replace 
The  fly -rod  in  my  hand,  this  eve  of  May ; 
And  watch  the  paper  fragments  float  away 

Into  oblivion,  on  a  trout-stream's  face. 

Thou  fool,  thou  fool  I  thou  weary,  crippled  fool ! 
Thou  never  more  wilt  leap  from  stone  to  stone 
Where  rise  the  trout  in  every  rocky  pool ; 

Thou  never  more  wilt  stand  at  dusk  alone 
Beside  the  humming  waters,  in  the  cool. 
Where  dance  the  flies,  and  make  the  trout  thy  own ! 


M 


II 


AND  yet  I  think  — if  ever  years  awoke 
My  limbs  to  motion,  so  that  I  could  stand 
Again  beside  a  river,  rod  in  hand. 
As  Evening  spreads  his  solitary  cloak  — 

That  I  would  leave  the  little  speckled  folk 
Their  happy  life  —  their  marvellous  command 
Of  stream's  wild  ways  —  and  break  the  cruel  wand, 

To  let  them  cleave  the  current  at  a  stroke, 

As  I  myself  once  could.  —  Oh,  it  were  sweet 

To  ride  the  running  ripple  of  the  wave 
As  long  ago,  when  wanes  the  long  day's  heat ; 

Or  search,  in  daring  headers,  what  gems  pave 

The  river  bed,  until  the  bold  hands  meet, 
In  depths  of  beryl,  what  the  trick'd  eyes  crave. 


15 


.  TO  OTHERS 

YK  who  can  roam  where  thrills  the  tawny  com, 
Or  wade  through  seeded  grass,  or  who  can  stray 
Across  the  meadows  as  they  make  the  hay, 
Or  where  the  dewdrop  sparkles  on  the  thorn  — 

If  you  could  lose,  but  for  a  single  day. 

Your  use  of  limb,  your  power  to  pluck  the  may 
In  rutty  lanes  where  thrushes  sing  all  day, 

I  wonder,  would  you  speak  of  life  with  scorn  ? 

God  knows,  I  would  not  keep  you  pent  for  long 

In  that  close  cage  where  anguish  pecks  the  husk 
Of  Life's  spilt  millet,  upon  which  it  thrives; 

But  long  enough  to  let  you  learn  the  song 

Which  captive  thrushes  sing  from  dawn  to  dusk  : 
An  hour  or  two  would  make  you  love  your  lives. 


i6 


KING  CHRISTMAS 

Now  Old  King  Christmas,  bearded  hoary -white, 
Comes  with  his  holly  and  carousing  noise, 
Barons  of  beef,  mince  pies,  and  wassail  joys, 
And  flame  surrounds  the  pudding  blue  and  bright ; 

And  now  the  fir-trees,  as  he  comes  in  sight, 
Acclaimed  by  eager  blue-eyed  girls  and  boys, 
Burst  into  tinsel  fruit  and  glittering  toys, 

And  turn  into  a  pyramid  of  light. 

I  love,  in  fancy,  still  to  see  them  all, 

Those  happy  children  round  the  dazzling  tree 
Which  fills  the  room  with  scents  of  fir  and  wax ; 

For  still  I  love  that  life's  sweet  things  should  fall 

Into  the  lap  of  others ;  though,  for  me. 
The  gift  of  Christmas  is  but  pain  that  racks. 


17 


AN  ELFIN  SKATE 

I 

THEY  wheeled  me  up  the  snow<leared  garden  way, 
And  left  me  where  the  da/zling  heaps  were  thrown 
And  as  I  mused  on  winter  sports  once  more. 
Up  came  a  tiny  man  to  where  I  lay. 

He  was  six  inches  high  ;  his  beard  was  grey 
As  silver  frost ;  his  coat  and  cap  were  brown, 
Of  mouse's  fur ;  while  two  wee  skates  hung  down 

From  his  wee  belt,  and  gleamed  in  winter's  ray. 

He  clambered  up  my  couch,  and  eyed  me  long. 

"  Show  me  thy  skates,"  said  I ;  "  for  once,  alas  I 
I,  too,  could  skate.     What  pixie  mayst  thou  be?" 

"  I  am  the  king,"  he  answered,  "of  the  throng 

Called  Winter  Elves.     We  live  in  roots,  and  pass 
The  summer  months  in  sleep.     Frost  sets  us  free." 


i8 


II 

46  \  1  7e  find  by  moonlight  little  pools  of  ice, 

V  V      Just  one  yard  wide,"  the  imp  of  winter  said ; 
"  And  skate  all  night,  while  mortals  are  in  bed, 
In  tiny  circles  of  our  Elf  device ; 

"  And  when  it  snows  we  harness  forest  mice 

To  wee  bark  sleighs,  with  lightest  fibrous  thread, 
And  scour  the  woods  ;  or  play  all  night  instead 

With  snowballs  large  as  peas,  well  patted  thrice. 

"  But  is  it  true,  as  I  have  heard  them  say. 

That  thou  canst  share  in  winter  games  no  more. 
But  liest  motionless  year  in,  year  out  ? 

"  That  must  be  hard.     To-day  I  cannot  stay, 
But  I'll  return  each  year,  when  all  is  hoar, 
And  tell  thee  when  the  skaters  are  about." 


•9 


Ill 


ON  my  wheeled  bed,  I  let  my  fingers  play 
With  a  wee  silver  skate,  scarce  one  inch  long, 
Which  might  have  fitted  one  of  Frost's  Elf  throng. 
Or  been  his  gift  to  one  whose  limbs  are  clay. 

But  EJfdom's  dead;  and  what  in  my  hand  lay 
Was  out  of  an  old  desk,  from  years  when,  strong 
And  full  of  health,  life  sang  me  still  its  song; 

A  skating  club's  small  badge,  long  stowed  away. 

Oh,  there  is  nothing  like  the  skater's  art  — 

The  poetry  of  circles;  nothing  like 
The  fleeting  beauty  of  his  crystal  floor. 

Above  his  head  the  winter  sunbeams  dart; 

Beneath  his  feet  flits  fast  the  frightened  pike. 
Skate  while  you  may  ;  the  morrow  skates  no  more. 


20 


TO  MY  WHEELED  BED 

HYBRID  of  rack  and  of  Procrustes'  bed, 
Thou  thing  of  wood,  of  leather,  and  of  steel. 
Round  which,  by  day  and  night,  at  head  and  heel, 
Crouch  shadowy  Tormentors,  dumb  and  dread; 

Round  which  the  wingless  Hours,  with  feet  of  lead 
For  ever  crawl,  in  spite  of  fierce  appeal, 
And  the  dark  Terrors  dance  their  silent  reel ; 

What  will  they  do  with  thee  when  I  am  dead  ? 

Lest  men  should  ask,  who  find  thee  stowed  away 
In  some  old  lumber  room,  what  wretch  was  he 
Who  used  so  strange  an  engine  night  and  day, 

Fain  would  I  have  thee  shivered  utterly ; 

For,  please  the  Fates,  no  other  son  of  clay 
Will  ever  need  so  dire  a  bed  as  thee. 


21 


CORSO  DE*  FIORI 

THIS  is  the  Fight  of  Roses;  and  to-day 
Florence  does  credit  to  its  flow'ry  name ; 
And  every  carriage,  rose-wreathed  wheel  and  frame, 
Panel  and  trappings,  seeks  the  dewy  fray 

To  fling  its  yellow  rosebuds,  or  display 

bright  silk  clad  human  blossoms  ;  till  the  flame 
Of  sunset  dwindles,  and  the  fair  hands  aim 

Their  last  wet  rose  as  daylight  wanes  away. 

And  all  are  gone  to  see  it,  and  to  breathe 

Great  April's  breath,  who  marshals  his  approach 
With  such  a  pomp  and  pageantry  of  hue. 

That  even  I  have  half  a  mind  to  wreathe 
The  wheels  of  my  uncomfortable  coach 
With  rosebuds,  too,  to  give  great  Spring  his  due. 


22 


AT  REST 

MAKE  me  in  marble  after  I  am  dead ; 
Stretched  out  recumbent,  just  as  I  have  lain ; 
That  those  who  care  may  see  me  once  again 
Such  as  they  knew  me  on  my  hard  wheeled  bed : 

Save  that  the  motionless  and  marble  head 
Will  never  ache  with  hope  for  ever  vain ; 
And  down  the  marble  limbs  the  waves  of  pain 

Will  never  race,  but  all  be  peace  instead. 

And  this  be  writ:  The  same  blind  silent  weight 
That  moves  the  planets  kept  him  on  his  back 
And  forced  him  in  his  misery  to  create. 

He  lay  for  years  upon  a  daily  rack; 

He  grudged  to  none  their  freer,  happier  fate  ; 
He  hoped  no  heaven,  nor  deemed  the  world  all  black. 


23 


EAGLES  OF  TIKERIUS 

THEY  say  at  Capri  that  Tiberius  bound 
His  slaves  to  eagles,  when  he  had  them  flung 
In  the  abysses,  from  the  rocks  that  hung 
Beetling  above  the  sea  and  the  sea's  sound. 

Slowly  the  eagle,  struggling  round  and  round 

With  the  gagged  slave  that  from  his  talons  swung, 
Sank  through  the  air,  to  which  he  fiercely  clung. 

Until  the  sea  caught  both,  and  both  were  drowned. 

O  eagle  of  the  Spirit,  hold  thy  own  ; 

Work  thy  great  wings,  and  grapple  to  the  sky ; 
Let  not  this  shackled  body  drag  thee  down 

Into  that  stagnant  sea  where,  by-and-by. 

The  ethereal  and  the  clayey  both  must  drown, 
Bound  by  a  link  which  neither  can  untie  I 


24 


TO  MY  TORTOISE  CHRONOS 

THOU  vague  dumb  crawler  with  the  groping  head 
As  listless  to  the  sun  as  to  the  show'rs, 
Thou  very  image  of  the  wingless  Hours 
Now  creeping  past  me  with  their  feet  of  lead : 

For  thee  and  me  the  same  small  garden  bed 
Is  the  whole  world  :  the  same  half  life  is  ours ; 
And  year  by  year,  as  Fate  restricts  my  pow'rs, 

I  grow  more  like  thee,  and  the  soul  grows  dead. 

No,  Tortoise :  from  thy  like  in  days  of  old 

Was  made  the  living  lyre  ;  and  mighty  strings 
Spanned  thy  green  shell  with  pure  vibrating  gold. 

The  notes  soared  up,  on  strong  but  trembling  wings, 
Through  ether's  lower  zones ;  then  growing  bold. 
Spurned  earth  for  ever  and  its  wingless  things. 


THE  SUN-DIAL 


THE  sun  is  shining  through  a  hot  white  veil ; 
And  round  the  faded  sun-dial,  on  the  face 
Of  tliis  old  Tuscan  house,  whose  narrow  space 
Prisons  my  life,  the  pointing  shade  creeps  pale. 

More  sluggish  than  the  dusty  sun-baked  snail. 
On  the  same  wall,  it  keeps  its  gnawing  pace, 
The  shadow  of  a  shade,  faint  as  the  trace 

Of  Life's  lost  pleasures,  up  the  dull  old  scale. 

Thou  shade  of  woe,  that  creep'st  at  Fate's  command, 

Say,  must  the  body  wait  till  it  be  dead 
To  quit  this  numbing  stretcher  of  disease  ? 

Oh,  is  there  no  Isaiah  in  the  land, 

To  raise  me  from  this  miserable  bed 
And  make  the  shadow  leap  the  ten  degrees  ? 


26 


II 


No,  there  is  no  tall  prophet  at  my  call 
Flame -eyed,  imperious,  doomed  to  wooden  saws, 
To  stretch  his  rod  athwart  eternal  laws 
And  juggle  with  the  shadow  on  the  wall. 

No  Ahaz'  sun-dial  this.     The  earth's  dumb  ball. 
Through  the  blind  Heaven  of  effect  and  cause, 
Rolls  on  and  on  ;  —  and  on,  without  a  pause 

The  shadow  creeps,  to  merge  in  Night's  great  pall. 

Then  list,  ye  Hours.  —  Since  it  is  writ  on  high 

That  none  shall  help  me  in  my  silent  fight, 
Creep  but  for  me,  and  fast  for  others  fly: 

So  shall  I  lie  content,  and  deem  things  right, 
And  heave  at  most  a  wistful  waiting  sigh. 
For  death's  unstarr'd,  but  hospitable  night. 


27 


II 

BRUSH  AND  CHISEL 


ON  A  GROUP  OF  FRA  ANGELICO'S  ANGELS 

WHAT  Tuscan  sunset,  what  aerial  gold, 
Condensed  its  flakes  to  make  these  aureoled  shapes, 
These  bright  winged  trumpeters  that  colour  drapes 
In  robes  of  glow  and  wonder  from  of  old ; 

As  if  they  roamed  those  pale -green  depths  that  hold 
The  topaz  isles  and  diamond-outlined  capes, 
When,  through  the  West's  great  gate,  as  he  escapes, 

Light  flings  his  fan,  for  seraphim  to  fold  ? 

Or  were  they  bom  of  such  bright  drifts  as  now. 
Like  countless  cherub  winglets  of  gold  down, 
Are  crossing  Florence  at  the  Angels'  hour; 

When  through  the  summer  air  comes  deep  and  slow 

Across  the  olive  hill  which  hides  the  town. 
The  boom  of  a  great  bell  from  Giotto's  •  tower  ? 


I  The  word  "  Giotto  "  is  a  dissyllable.     In  Italian  Gt  before 
another  vowel  is  equivalent  to  our^. 


31 


THE  EVER  YOUNG 

I 

THKRE  are  round  lips  that  once  obtained  a  draught 
From  the  deep  sappliire  of  the  Fount  of  ^'outh  ; 
Lips  old,  yet  young,  whose  smile  attests  the  truth 
Of  that  great  dream  at  which  the  wise  have  laughed ; 

And  there  are  brows,  which  still,  by  magic  craft, 
Defy  the  years  that  know  nor  rest  nor  ruth, 
And  which  remain,  in  spite  of  Time's  dull  tooth, 

As  radiant  as  the  wondrous  water  quaffed. 

But  not  of  living  flesh  and  blood  are  they ; 

And  Art  alone  can  give  their  long  youth  birth, 
And  bid  them  keep  it  while  mere  men  grow  grey. 

Art  makes  the  only  ever  young  on  earth  ; 

Shapes  which  can  keep,  till  crumbled  quite  away, 
A  young  saint's  rapture  or  a  young  faun's  mirth. 


32 


II 


WHAT  impious  wrinkle  ever  marred  the  cheek 
Of  that  proud  beauty,  armless  from  of  old, 
Who  stands,  though  twenty  centuries  are  scroll'd, 
Young  as  when  first  she  smiled  upon  the  Greek  ? 

What  thread  of  silver  ever  dared  to  streak 
The  wavy  wonder  of  the  wanton  gold 
Round  Titian's  Magdalen,  while  men  behold 

Each  other  whiten  as  their  lives  grow  bleak  ? 

And  those  more  breathing  beings  that  the  pen 
Creates  of  subtler  substance  than  the  brush 
Or  chisel  ever  dealt  with  —  What  of  them  ? 

Are  Juliet's  eyes  less  bright  in  those  of  men, 

Her  cheek  less  oval ;  and  will  ages  crush 
The  youth  from  out  Pompilia's  frail  cut  stem  ? 


33 


Ill 


AND  yet  Art's  wonders  are  at  last  Death's  prize: 
The  shattered  marble  crumbles  into  lime; 
( "anvas  and  Fresco  perish  under  grime  ; 
The  pen's  great  shapes  will  die  when  language  dies. 

The  Milo  stone  will  go  where  lime's  dust  flies, 
And  Titian's  Magdalen  turn  black  with  time ; 
Juliet  will  end  with  England's  tongue  and  rhyme, 

Pompilia,  too,  that  other  shapes  may  rise. 

15ut  not  a  wrinkle  will  o'ercreep  their  brow, 

Nor  thread  of  silver  mar  the  locks  we  love, 
However  oft  a  century's  knell  has  rung; 

And  when  they  die  they  will  be  fair  as  now; 
F"or  they  are  cherished  by  the  gods  above ; 
And  those  the  gods  are  fond  of,  perish  young. 


34 


ON  RAPHAEL'S  ARCHANGEL  MICHAEL 

FROM  out  the  depths  of  crocus -coloured  mom, 
With  rush  of  wings,  the  young  Archangel  came. 
And  diamond  spear ;  and  leapt,  as  leaps  a  flame, 
On  Satan,  where  the  light  was  scarcely  born ; 

And  roll'd  the  sunless  Rebel,  bruis'd  and  torn. 
Upon  the  earth's  bare  plain,  in  dust  and  shame, 
Holding  awhile  his  spear's  suspended  aim 

Above  the  rayless  head  in  radiant  scorn. 

So  leaps  within  the  soul  on  Wrong  or  Lust 

The  warrior  Angel  whom  we  deem  not  near, 
And  rolls  the  rebel  impulse  in  the  dust. 

Scathing  its  neck  with  his  triumphal  tread, 

And  holding  high  his  bright  coercing  spear 
Above  its  inextermina1)le  head. 


35 


ON  TWO  OF  SK'.NOKKI.I.rS   FKKSCOES 


THE    RISING    OK    THE    DKAD 

I  SAW  a  vast  bare  plain,  and,  overhead, 
A  half -chilled  sun  that  shed  a  sickly  light ; 
While  far  and  wide,  till  out  of  reach  of  sight, 
The  earth's  thin  crust  was  heaving  with  the  dead, 

Who,  as  they  struggled  from  their  dusty  bed, 

At  first  mere  bones,  by  countless  years  made  while, 
Took  gradual  flesh,  and  stood  all  huddled  tight 

In  mute,  dull  groups,  as  yet  too  numb  to  dread. 

And  all  the  while  the  summoning  trump  on  high 

With  rolling  thunder  never  ceased  to  shake 
The  livid  vault  of  that  unclouded  sky, 

Calling  fresh  hosts  of  skeletons  to  take 

Each  his  identity;  until  well-nigh 
The  whole  dry  worn-out  earth  appeared  to  wake. 


36 


II 

THE    BINDING    OF    THE    LOST 

IN  monstrous  caverns,  lit  but  by  the  glare 
From  pools  of  molten  stone,  the  lost  are  pent 
In  silent  herds,  —  dim,  shadowy,  vaguely  blent. 
Yet  each  alone  with  his  own  black  despair ; 

While,  through  the  thickness  of  the  lurid  air, 
The  flying  fiends,  from  some  far  unseen  vent, 
Bring  on  their  bat-wing'd  backs,  in  swift  descent. 

The  souls  who  swell  the  waiting  myriads  there. 

And  then  begins  the  binding  of  the  lost 

With  snaky  thongs,  before  they  be  transferred 
To  realms  of  utter  flame  or  utter  frost  ; 

And,  like  a  sudden  ocean  boom,  is  heard, 

Uprising  from  the  dim  and  countless  host, 
Pain's  first  vague  roar,  Hell's  first  wild  useless  word. 


37 


THE  WAIFS  OF  TIME 

WHEN  some  great  ship  has  long  ago  been  wreck'd, 
And  the  repentant  waves  have  long  since  laid 
Upon  the  beach  the  booty  that  they  made, 
And  few  remember  still,  and  none  expect. 

The  Sea  will  sometimes  suddenly  eject 
A  lonely  shattered  waif,  still  undecayed, 
That  tells  of  lives  with  which  an  old  storm  played, 

In  a  carved  name  that  greybeards  recollect. 

So  ever  and  anon  the  soundless  sea 

Which  we  call  Time,  casts  up  upon  the  strand 
Some  tardy  waif  from  lost  antiquity  : 

A  stained  maimed  god,  a  faun  with  shattered  hand, 

P>om  Art's  great  wreck  is  suddenly  set  free, 
And  stands  before  us  as  immortals  stand. 


38 


TO  THE  SO-CALLED  VENUS  OF  MILO 


THOU  armless  Splendour,  Victory's  own  breath  ; 
Embraceless  Beauty,  Strength  bereft  of  hands  ; 
To  whose  high  pedestal  a  hundred  lands 
Send  rent  of  awe,  and  sons  to  stand  beneath ; 

To  whom  Adonis  never  brought  a  wreath, 

Nor  Tannhauser  a  song,  but  whose  commands 
Were  blindly  followed,  by  immortal  bands 

Who  wooed  thee  at  Thermopyls  in  death : 

No  Venus  thou ;  but  nurse  of  legions  steeled 

By  Freedom's  self,  where  rang  her  highest  note, 
And  never  has  thy  bosom  felt  a  kiss : 

No  Venus  thou ;  but  on  the  golden  shield 

Which  once  thy  lost  left  held,  thy  lost  right  wrote : 
"  At  Marathon  and  briny  Salamis." 


39 


II 


PKRHATS  tliy  arms  are  lying  where  they  hold 
The  roots  of  some  old  olive,  which  strikes  deep 
In  Attic  eartii ;  or  where  the  Greek  girls  reap, 
With  echoes  of  the  harvest  hymns  of  old; 

Or  haply  in  some  seaweed -cusliioned  fold 

Of  warm  Greek  seas,  which  shadows  of  ships  sweep, 
While  prying  dolphins  through  the  green  ribs  peep, 

Of  sunken  galleys  filled  with  Persian  gold. 

Or  were  they  shattered,  —  pounded  back  to  lime, 

To  make  the  mortar  for  some  Turkish  tower 
Which  overshadowed  Freedom  for  a  time  ? 

Or  strewn  as  dust,  to  make,  with  sun  and  shower. 

The  grain  and  vine  and  olive  of  their  clime. 
As  was  the  hand  which  wrouglit  them  in  an  hour  ? 


40 


ON  AN  ILLUSTRATION  IN   DORfi'S   DANTE 


No,  Heaven  is  not  like  this ;  nor  are  the  hosts 
Of  the  Eternal  Sunrise  like  these  flocks 
Of  dim  grey  gulls,  which  seem  from  off  the  rocks 
Of  utmost  Thule's  tempest-tortured  coasts  ; 

But  brighter  than  the  sparkling  rosy  frosts 
Of  topless  Himalay,  when  Dawn  unlocks 
Light's  doors  on  India ;  and  the  glory  mocks 

What  rays  then  stream  through  Morning's  cloudy  posts. 

I  know  it  as  I  once  was  taken  there 

By  one  who  held,  though  breathing  still  our  air, 
The  diamond  clue  to  that  broad  dream-made  shore 

"  Where  the  great  multitude  that  no  man  knows, 

In  garments  white  as  Lebanon's  first  snows. 
Walk  in  the  sunrise,  knowing  death  no  more." 


41 


II 

WiiKN  DatUe  went  with  Beatrice  of  old 
To  l.iRht's  transcendent  and  eternal  springs, 
Where  clustered  angels  glow  in  wondrous  strings 
Of  mystic  roses,  wreathed  and  fast  unrolled ; 

Or  when  he  saw,  on  incandescent  gold, 

The  great  quadrilles  of  seraphs  form  their  rings 
And  wind  in  endless  figures  —  all  the  wings 

Were  gleaming  there,  that  Heaven  can  spread  or  fold. 

And  gleam  they  ever  will,  in  the  pure  height 

Of  sky  within  us,  when  the  soul  upgoes 
To  spheres  of  higher  self,  from  clods  and  night, 

Where  petals  in  the  luminous  gold  unclose. 

And  angels,  clustered  in  a  rose  of  light, 
Glow  as  a  minster's  great  rose  window  glows. 


42 


ON  MANTEGNA'S  DRAWING  OF  JUDITH 


WHAT  stony,  bloodless  Judith  hast  thou  made, 
Mantegna  —  draped  in  many  a  stony  fold  ? 
What  walking  sleeper  whose  benumb'd  hands  hold 
A  stony  head  and  an  unbloody  blade  ? 

In  thine  own  savage  days,  wast  thou  afraid 
To  paint  such  Judiths  as  thou  mightst  behold 
In  open  street,  and  paint  the  heads  that  rolled 

Beneath  the  axe,  and  that  each  square  displayed  ? 

No,  no ;  not  such  was  Judith,  on  the  night 

When,  in  the  silent  camp,  she  watched  alone. 
Like  some  dumb  tigress,  in  the  tent's  dim  light 

Her  sleeping  prey ;  nor  when,  her  dark  deed  done, 

She  seized  the  head,  and  feasted  thought  and  sight 
Upon  a  ball  that  was  no  ball  of  stone. 


43 


II 


TiiKKE  was  a  gleam  of  jewels  in  the  (eiit 
Wliich  one  dim  cresset  lit  — a  baleful  gleam  — 
And  from  liis  scattered  armour  seemed  to  stream 
A  dusky,  evil  light  that  came  and  went. 

but  from  her  eyes,  as  over  him  she  bent, 
Watching  the  surface  of  his  drunken  dream, 
There  shot  a  deadlier  ray,  a  darker  beam, 

A  look  in  which  her  life's  one  lust  found  vent. 

There  was  a  hissing  through  her  tightened  teeth, 

As  with  her  scimitar  she  crouched  above 
His  dark,  doomed  head,  and  held  her  perilous  breath. 

While  ever  and  anon  she  saw  him  move 

His  red  lascivious  lips,  and  smile  beneath 
His  curled  and  scented  beard,  and  mutter  love. 


44 


ON  THE  HORSES  OF  ST.  MARK 

THERE  be  four  brazen  stallions  of  the  breed 
That  Nikd  drove  at  Marathon  abreast, 
Who  march  before  St.  Mark's  with  pace  repress'd, 
As  if  her  self  were  curbing-in  their  speed; 

Marching  as  they  have  marched  through  crowd  and  creed 
Down  all  Antiquity  with  clip-maned  crest, 
And  through  the  Middle  Times  with  broad  bronze  chest, 

To  trample  down  the  Present  like  a  reed. 

They  march  towards  the  Future  of  the  world, 

In  Time  not  Space;  and  what  the  path  is  through 
Is  writ  in  shadowy  scrolls  not  yet  unfurl'd ; 

And  as  they  march,  the  pigeons  waltz  and  coo 
Upon  their  sunlit  backs,  when  eve  has  curl'd 
The  still  canals,  as  eve  is  wont  to  do. 


45 


ON  A  SUKFRULLEU  TORSO  OF  VENUS 

DISCOVERED    AT  TRII'OLI    VECCHIO 

ONE  day,  in  the  world's  youth,  long,  long  ago. 
Before  the  golden  hair  of  Time  grew  grey, 
The  bright  warm  sea,  scarce  stirred  by  dolphins'  play, 
Was  swept  by  sudden  music  strange  and  low  ; 

And  rippling  with  the  kisses  Zephyrs  blow, 

Gave  forth  a  dripping  goddess,  whose  strong  sway 
All  earth,  all  air,  all  wave,  was  to  obey. 

Throned  on  a  shell  more  rosy  than  dawn's  glow. 

And,  lo,  that  self-same  sea  has  now  upthrown 

A  mutilated  Venus,  roH'd  and  roH'd 
For  centuries  in  surf,  and  who  has  grown 

More  soft,  more  chaste,  more  lovely  than  of  old, 
With  every  line  made  vague,  so  that  the  stone 
Seems  seen  as  through  a  veil  which  Ages  hold. 


46 


FADING  GLORIES 


THE  gold  of  nimbus  and  of  background  sky, 
Around  the  auburn  heads  of  sweet  young  saints 
Still  glows  in  frescoed  cloisters ;  but  the  paints 
Are  fading  on  the  wall  since  Faith's  good-bye. 

And  you,  blond  angel  throngs,  who  stand  and  try 
Your  citherns'  golden  strings;  the  colour  faints 
Upon  your  pure  green  robes,  which  mildew  taints ; 

You  sing  your  last  hosanna,  ere  you  die. 

The  age  that  made  the  aureoled  is  long  dead ; 
The  gold  behind  their  heads  is  sinking  sun, 
And  night  will  wrap  them  in  its  pall  of  lead : 

They  are  the  dream-shapes  of  a  time  when  none 

Hoped  earthly  good ;  and  long  by  man's  dark  bed 
They  stood  and  smiled.    They  fade ;  their  task  is  done. 


47 


II 

IN  or  and  azure  were  they  shrined  of  old, 
\Vl>ere  led  dim  aisle  to  glowing  stained -glass  rose, 
Like  life's  dim  lane,  with  Heaven  at  its  close; 
Where  censer  swung,  and  organ -thunder  rolled; 

Where  mitred,  croziered,  and  superbly  stoled, 
Pale  pontiffs  gleamed,  in  dusky  minster  shows; 
Where,  like  a  soul  that  trembling  skyward  goes, 

The  Easter  hymn  soared  up  on  wings  of  gold. 

And  now  they  stand  with  aureoles  that  time  dims 

Near  young  Greek  fauns  that  pagan  berries  wreathe, 
In  crowded  glaring  galleries  of  dead  art. 

Their  hands  still  fold  ;  their  lips  still  sing  faint  hymns  ; 

Or  are  they  prayers  that  beautiful  shapes  breathe 
For  shelter  in  some  cold  eclectic  heart .'' 


48 


ON  LEONARDO'S  HEAD  OF  MEDUSA 

THE  livid  and  unutterable  head, 
Fresh  cut,  lies  welt'ring  in  its  mane  of  snakes ; 
A  slowly  writhing  tangle  which  still  takes 
Its  time  to  die,  round  temples  that  are  dead ; 

While  through  the  lips,  wet  as  with  froth  of  lead, 
Like  the  last  breath  of  horror  which  forsakes 
Evil's  cut  throat,  a  poisonous  vapour  makes 

Its  way  from  Hell  to  Heaven,  vague  and  dread. 

Already  blind,  the  dying  vipers  grope. 

Writhing  in  vain  to  leave  the  head  they  loathe. 
Now  that  it  lies  there,  gory,  dead  and  wan  ; 

Each  strangling  each  in  coils  of  creeping  rope. 

Till  death  invades  them  from  the  brows  they  clothe. 
And  they  coagulate.     A  toad  looks  on. 


49 


il 


Ill 

LIFE  AND  FATE 


I 


THE  RING  OF  FAUSTUS 

THERE  is  a  tale  of  Faustus, —  that  one  day 
Lucretia  the  Venetian,  then  his  love, 
Had,  while  he  slept,  the  rashness  to  remove 
His  magic  ring,  when  fair  as  a  god  he  lay ; 

And  that  a  sudden  horrible  decay 

O'erspread  his  face ;  a  hundred  wrinkles  wove 
Their  network  on  his  cheek ;  while  she  above 

His  slumber  crouched,  and  watched  him  shrivel  away. 

There  is  upon  Life's  hand  a  magic  ring  — 

The  ring  of  Faith -in-Good,  Life's  gold  of  gold; 
Remove  it  not,  lest  all  Life's  charm  take  wing ; 

Remove  it  not,  lest  straightway  you  behold 

Life's  cheek  fall  in,  and  every  earthly  thing 
Grow  all  at  once  unutterably  old. 


S3 


SUNKEN  GOLD 

IN  dim  green  depths  rot  ingot -laden  ships; 
And  gold  doubloons,  that  from  the  drowned  hand  fell, 
Lie  nestled  in  the  ocean -flower's  bell 
With  love's  old  gifts,  once  kissed  by  long-drowned  lips  ; 

And  round  some  wrought  gold  cup  the  sea -grass  whips, 
And  hides  lost  pearls,  near  pearls  still  in  their  shell, 
Where  sea -weed  forests  fill  each  ocean  dell 

And  seek  dim  sunlight  with  their  restless  tips. 

So  lie  the  wasted  gifts,  the  long-lost  hopes 

Beneath  the  now  hushed  surface  of  myself, 
In  lonelier  depths  than  where  the  diver  gropes ; 

They  lie  deep,  deep ;  but  I  at  times  behold 

In  doubtful  glimpses,  on  some  reefy  shelf, 
The  gleam  of  irrecoverable  gold. 


54 


t 


LIFE'S  GAME 

Life's  Evil  Genius  witii  the  sunless  wings 
And  our  white  Guardian  Angel  sit  and  play 
Their  silent  game  of  skill  from  day  to  day, 
Where  thoughts  are  pawns,  and  deeds  are  set  as  kings. 

And  every  move  on  that  strange  chessboard  brings 
Some  change  in  us  —  in  what  we  do  or  say ; 
Till  with  our  life  the  winner  sweeps  away 

The  last  few  pawns  to  which  his  rival  clings. 

We  seem  permitted,  ever  and  anon, 

To  catch  a  glimpse  of  that  great  fatal  game 
By  which  our  soul  shall  be  or  lost  or  won. 

We  watch  one  move,  then  turn  away  in  shame ; 

But  though  we  lack  the  courage  to  look  on. 
The  game  goes  on  without  us  all  the  same. 


55 


SOULAC 

ASTRANCK  square  house,  all  battered,  used  to  stand 
Upon  the  Gascon  coast,  where  sparse  pines  keep 
A  doubtful  footing,  as  the  salt  winds  sweep 
The  restless  hillocks  of  ill-bladed  sand. 

A  house?  it  was  the  bell-loft,  Norman -plann'd, 
Of  long -lost  Soulac's  minster,  buried  deep 
In  sand,  which  Ocean  never  seized  to  heap 

In  its  eternal  battle  with  the  land. 

All  else  was  gone :  fit  image  of  the  fate 

That  overtakes  the  rich  and  stately  pile 
Which,  arch  on  arch,  life's  early  dreams  create. 

The  real  slowly  clogs  it,  nave  and  aisle. 

Transept  and  apse ;  and  we  are  glad,  if  late, 
Some  humble  vestige  shelters  us  awhile. 


56 


BY  THE  FIRE 

I    SAT  beside  the  log-fire  years  ago, 
And,  in  the  dusk  made  forecasts  by  its  flare, 
Meting  the  Future  out,  to  each  his  share, 
While  danced  the  restless  shadows  to  and  fro. 

And  when  at  last  the  yellow  flame  grew  low 
And  leapt  and  licked  no  more,  I  still  sat  there 
Watching  with  eyes  fast  fixed,  but  mind  elsewhere 

The  darkening  crimson  of  the  flameless  glow. 

And  now  at  dusk,  I  watch  once  more  to-day 

The  slowly -sinking  flame,  the  faint  dull  crash 
Of  crimson  embers  deadening  into  grey ; 

But  see  alone  the  Past,  misspent  and  rash. 

And  wasted  gifts,  and  chances  thrown  away. 
The  Present  and  the  Future  ?     All  is  ash. 


57 


LETHE 

I    II A  I)  a  dream  of  Lethe,  —  of  the  brink 
Of  shigp;ish  waters,  whither  strong  men  bore 
Dead  pallid  loves;  while  others,  old  and  sore, 
IJrought  but  their  tottering  selves,  in  haste  to  drink  : 

And  having  drunk,  they  plunged,  and  seemed  to  sink 
Their  load  of  love  or  guilt  for  evermore, 
Reaching  with  radiant  brow  the  sunny  shore 

That  lay  beyond,  no  more  to  think  and  think. 

Oh,  who  will  give  me,  chained  to  Memory's  strand, 

A  draught  of  Lethe,  salt  with  final  tears. 
Were  it  one  drop  within  the  hollow  hand  ? 

Oh,  who  will  rid  me  of  the  wasted  years, 

The  thought  of  life's  fair  structure  vainly  planned, 
And  each  false  hope  that  mocking  reappears  ? 


58 


HOUNDS  OF  FATE 

THE  Spaniards  trained  their  bloodhounds  once  to  play 
A  fearful  part  in  battle,  and  to  track 
The  Indians  in  the  swamps  where  they  fell  back ; 
And  every  hound  received  a  soldier's  pay. 

Sooner  or  later,  where  the  Indians  lay, 

Hiding  their  last  red  gold  from  screw  and  rack, 
Scenting  men's  flesh,  appeared  the  Cuban  pack 

And  filled  the  forest  with  their  booming  bay. 

And  so  the  hounds  of  Fate  have  hunted  down 

The  luckless  owners  of  the  virgin  gold 
Which  we  call  Genius,  since  the  world  began ; 

Save  that  the  hunted  Indians  are  unknown. 

While  poet  and  discoverer  are  enrolled 
In  bitter  glory  on  the  Book  of  Man. 


59 


THE  "lilSERNE  JUNGFKAU" 

TO    KATE 

THOU  art  that  Virgin  all  of  screws  and  steel, 
Born  in  some  feudal  dungeon  of  the  Rhine, 
Whose  arms  were  lined  witli  knives;  whose  gory  shrine 
Stood  in  the  torture -room  with  rack  and  wheel. 

First  at  her  feet  they  made  the  victim  kneel, 
Then  kiss  her  lips ;  and,  on  a  silent  sign, 
Her  steel  arms  opened  —  daggers  line  on  line  — 

And  gave  the  hug  that  never  walls  reveal. 

Thy  arms  of  horror  close  not  upon  all : 

Long  whiles  they  never  move;  and  nothing  shows 
What  means  the  silent  riddle  of  thy  face. 

But  now  and  then,  when  scarcely  we  recall 

What  thing  thou  art,  they  turn  upon  their  screws 
And  lock  us  in  their  murderous  embrace. 


60 


THE  SLEDGE 

MEN  throw  their  better  instincts  to  their  worse 
Much  as  that  Russian  mother  threw  her  young 
Out  of  the  sledge,  to  stop  the  wolves  that  sprung 
Faster  and  faster  than  the  maddened  horse. 

With  each  new  victim,  taking  fresher  force. 
The  wild  pursuit  goes  on  with  shriller  tongue ; 
Another  and  another  child  is  flung 

In  dizzy  panic  and  without  remorse ; 

The  snow-clad  firs  fly  past  in  endless  line ; 

But  faster  bound  the  wolves,  still  eight  or  nine, 
Nearer  and  nearer,  brazen -eyed  and  shrill ; 

And  when  the  furious  courser  stops  at  last, 
Vaguely  we  look  around  for  what  we  cast 
Out  of  Life's  sledge,  as  if  we  had  it  still. 


6i 


TllK   WRECK  ROCK  HELL 

ABOVE  Life's  waves,  with  wild  ill-omened  toll, 
Just  like  that  warning  buoy  bell  which  is  washed 
I5y  livid  breakers,  where  a  ship  has  crashed, 
I  hear  a  bell  of  shipwreck  in  my  soul. 

The  bitter  waste  surrounds  it ;  woe's  waves  roll 
For  ever  t'wards  it ;  spray  of  hope  long  dashed 
Leaps  over  it ;  and,  ever  faster  lashed, 

It  howls  its  dirge  of  ruin  on  the  shoal. 

"  Too  late,  too  late,"  it  thunders  through  the  dark, 

With  brazen  tongue,  that  drips  eternal  brine, 
"  Thy  race  is  run;  thou  wouldst  not  heed  or  hark. 

"  Too  late,  too  late.     Man  sails,  by  foul  or  fine, 

One  voyage  only  in  his  life's  swift  bark ; 
One  and  no  more.    What  made  thee  shipwreck  thine  ? " 


62 


THE  SILENT  FELLOW 

ii  1  T  7  HO  art  thou,  silent  brother  ?    Art  thou  Pain, — 
VV       In  face  so  like  me ;  sitting  on  the  bed 
In  which  I  lie  ? "  — "  Pain  for  to-day  has  said 
Good-night."  —  "  Then  Weariness  ? "  — "  No  ;  wrong  again.'' 

"  Thou  hast  a  branch  of  bay,  still  wet  with  rain  : 
Art  thou  my  former  self,  from  years  long  fled  ? 
Or  Hope  or  Loneliness?"  —  "No,  Hope  is  dead, 

And  thy  old  self  lies  low  in  Time's  dull  plain. 

"  None  of  all  these  am  I ;  although  men  say 

I  have  a  look  of  all.     The  part  I  play 
Is  to  reflect  what  stronger  gods  control : 

"  I  am  thy  Sonnet  Spirit ;  and  to-day 

I  bring  a  branch  of  Dead  Sea  fruit,  not  bay. 
Plucked  by  the  bitter  waters  of  the  soul." 


63 


NERO'S  SAND 

ONCE,  under  Nero,  there  was  lack  of  bread 
In  mighty  Rome  ;  and  eyes  were  strained  to  meet 
The  shi])s  from  Egypt,  laden  with  the  wheat 
With  which  the  Mistress  of  the  World  was  fed. 

Hut  when  at  last,  with  every  swelled  sail  spread. 
They  hove  in  sight,  there  ran  from  street  to  street 
A  sudden  rumour  that  the  longed-for  fleet 

Brought  sand  for  Nero's  circuses  instead. 

So  Fate  misfreights  the  vessel  of  our  lives 

Which  might  have  carried  grain  of  very  gold 
And  nils  it  to  the  water-mark  with  sand; 

And  Folly's  breezes  helping,  it  arrives 

Safely  in  port,  where  Death  unloads  the  hold. 
And  all  the  cheated  angels  round  it  stand. 


64 


MEETING  OF  GHOSTS 

WHEN  years  have  passed,  is't  wise  to  meet  again  ? 
Body  and  Mind  have  changed ;  and  is  it  wise 
To  take  old  Time,  the  Alterer,  by  surprise, 
And  see  how  he  has  worked  in  human  grain  ? 

We  think  that  what  once  was,  must  still  remain ; 

Ourself  a  ghost,  we  bid  a  ghost  arise ; 

Two  spectres  look  into  each  other's  eyes, 
And  break  the  image  that  their  hearts  contain. 

Mix  not  the  Past  and  Present :  let  the  Past 

Remain  in  peace  within  its  jewelled  shrine, 
And  drag  it  not  into  the  hum  and  glare ; 

Mix  not  two  faces  in  the  thoughts  that  last ; 

The  one  thou  knewest,  fair  in  every  line, 
And  one  unknown,  which  may  be  far  from  fair. 


65 


THE  RANSOM  OF  PERU 

THE  conquered  Inca  to  Pizarro  said: 
"  I  swear  to  fill  this  hall  with  virgin  gold, 
As  high  as  any  Spaniard  here  can  hold 
His  steel-gloved  hand,  if  thou  wilt  spare  my  head." 

Then  streamed  the  ingots  from  their  rocky  bed : 
For  weeks  and  weeks  the  tide  of  treasure  roll'd 
To  reach  the  mark ;  but  when  the  sum  was  told, 

The  victor  only  strangled  him  instead. 

And  many  have  said  to  Fate  :  "  If  I  may  eat 

Life's  sweet  coarse  bread,  the  ransom  shall  be  pour'd 
In  rhymes  of  gold  at  thy  victorious  feet." 

But  like  Pizarro  waiting  for  his  hoard, 

Fate  gave  them  chains ;  and  letting  them  complete 
The  glittering  heap,  then  drew  the  strangling  cord. 


66 


SIAMESE  TWINS 

KNOW  you  how  died  those  twins,  famed  far  and  near, 
Who,  tethered  hip  to  hip,  with  Fate's  strong  thread. 
Were  forced  to  walk  through  life  with  equal  tread, 
And  to  be  friends  and  share  at  last  one  bier  ? 

How  one  awoke  one  day,  and  could  not  hear 

His  brother's  breath,  and  felt,  and  found  him  dead ; 
And  how,  compelled  to  share  a  dead  man's  bed. 

He  died  of  an  unutterable  fear  ? 

Body  and  Mind  have  link  of  like  dread  kind : 
Woe  to  the  Body,  blind  and  helpless  clod. 
That  wakes  one  day,  and  hears  the  Mind  no  more; 

But  ten  times  woe  to  the  surviving  Mind, 

Bom  to  create,  command,  and  play  the  god  : 
Bound  to  a  corpse,  it  struggles  still  to  soar. 


67 


OESAR'S  GHOST 

IN  that  sharp  war  where  Caesar's  slayers  died, 
There  was  a  moment  when  it  seemed  decreed, 
As  sank  tlie  sun  blood-red  in  clumps  of  reed, 
That  victory  should  take  the  guilty  side: 

liut  just  as  they  were  winning  fast  and  wide, 
The  ghost  of  Ca;sar,  on  a  phantom  steed, 
Bore  down  on  Cassius  with  a  soundless  speed, 

And  with  a  sword  of  shadow  turned  the  tide. 

I  think  that  in  Life's  battle,  now  and  then. 

The  ghost  of  some  high  impulse  or  great  plan, 
Wliich  they  have  murdered,  may  appear  to  men. 

And,  like  the  shade  of  Ccesar,  check  the  van 

Of  their  success,  though  odds  to  one  be  ten, 
And  cow  their  soul,  as  only  phantoms  can. 


68 


A  SPANISH  LEGEND 

THERE  is  a  story  in  a  Spanish  book, 
About  a  noisy  reveller,  who,  one  night, 
Returning  home  with  others,  saw  a  light 
Shine  from  a  window,  and  climbed  up  to  look ; 

And  saw,  within  the  room,  hanged  to  a  hook, 
His  own  self-strangled  self,  grim,  rigid,  white; 
And,  stricken  sober  by  that  livid  sight. 

Feasting  his  eyes,  in  wordless  horror  shook. 

Has  any  man  a  fancy  to  look  in, 

And  see  as  through  a  window,  in  the  Past, 
His  nobler  self,  self -choked  with  coils  of  sin. 

Or  sloth,  or  folly?  —  round  the  throat  whipped  fast, 

The  nooses  give  the  face  a  stiffened  grin  : 
'Tis  but  thyself;  look  well;  why  be  aghast? 


69 


IN  THE  WOOD  OF  DEAD  SEA   I'KUIT 

I  LAY  beneath  the  trees  of  Dead  Sea  ¥nih, 
Whose  every  leaf  records  a  life's  mistake; 
And  pored  with  eyes  eternally  awake 
Upon  the  bitter  waters  at  their  root ; 

Searching  dead  chances ;  letting  If's  eyes  shoot 
Through  depths  that  profitable  thoughts  forsake 
As  birds  forsake  Avernus,  when  the  lake 

Yields  its  old  fumes,  that  numb  both  man  and  brute. 

This  is  the  pool  which  mirrors  him  who  bends 

Over  its  stillness,  such  as  once  he  was, 
Not  such  as  now  he  is,  in  face  and  eyes  : 

Its  depths  are  strewn  with  all  that  youth  misspends; 

With  all  the  wasted  chances  that  life  has ; 
And  there  all  Ophir,  all  Golconda,  lies. 


70 


IV 

THE  AFTER-LIFE 


« 


WAIFS  OF  A  WORLD 

LONG  ere  Columbus  in  the  breeze  unfurled 
His  venturous  sail  to  hunt  the  setting  sun, 
Long  ere  he  fired  his  first  exultant  gun 
Where  strange  canoes  all  round  his  flagship  whirled, 

The  unsailed  ocean  which  the  west  wind  curled 
Had  borne  strange  waifs  to  Europe,  one  by  one : 
Wood  carved  by  Indian  hands,  and  trees  like  none 

Which  men  then  knew,  from  an  untrodden  world. 

Oh  for  a  waif  from  o'er  that  wider  sea 

Whose  margin  is  the  grave,  and  where  we  think 
A  gem-bepebbled  continent  may  be  I 

But  all  in  vain  we  watch  upon  the  brink  ; 

No  waif  floats  up  from  black  infinity. 
Where  all  who  venture  out  for  ever  sink. 


73 


SEASllELL  MUKMUKS 

Till,  liollow  sea-shell  which  for  years  halh  stood 
On  dusty  shelves,  when  held  against  the  ear 
Proclaims  its  stormy  parent ;  and  we  hear 
The  faint  far  murmur  of  the  breaking  flood. 

We  hear  the  sea.     The  sea  ?     It  is  the  blood 
In  our  own  veins,  impetuous  and  near, 
And  pulses  keeping  pace  with  hope  and  fear 

And  with  our  feelings'  every  shifting  mood. 

Lo,  in  my  heart  I  hear,  as  in  a  shell, 

The  murmur  of  a  world  beyond  the  grave, 
Distinct,  distinct,  though  faint  and  far  it  be. 

Thou  fool ;  this  echo  is  a  cheat  as  well, — 

The  hum  of  earthly  instincts ;  and  we  crave 
A  world  unreal  as  the  shell -heard  sea. 


74 


IDLE  CHARON 

THE  shores  of  Styx  are  lone  for  evermore, 
And  not  one  shadowy  form  upon  the  steep 
Looms  through  the  dusk,  far  as  the  eye  can  sweep, 
To  call  the  ferry  over  as  of  yore ; 

But  tintless  rushes,  all  about  the  shore. 

Have  hemmed  the  old  boat  in,  where,  locked  in  sleep. 
Hoar-bearded  Charon  lies ;  while  pale  weeds  creep 

With  tightening  grasp  all  round  the  unused  oar. 

For  in  the  world  of  Life  strange  rumours  run 

That  now  the  Soul  departs  not  with  the  breath, 
But  that  the  Body  and  the  Soul  are  one ; 

And  in  the  loved  one's  mouth,  now,  after  death. 

The  widow  puts  no  obol,  nor  the  son, 
To  pay  the  ferry  in  the  world  beneath. 


75 


THE  OIJOL" 

StARCK  have  I  rhymed  of  Charon  looming  grey 
Amid  pale  rushes,  through  the  dusky  air, 
And  of  the  obol  we  no  longer  care 
To  put  in  dead  men's  mouths  as  ferry-pay, 

When,  lo,  I  find,  among  some  pence,  to-day 

Received  as  common  change,  I  know  not  where, 
A  stray  Greek  obol,  seeming  Charon's  fare 

To  put  between  my  lips  when  I  be  clay. 

Poor  bastard  Obol,  even  couldst  thou  cheat 

The  shadowy  Boatman,  I  should  scarcely  find 
The  heart  to  cross :  extinction  seems  so  sweet. 

I  need  thee  not ;  and  thou  shalt  be  consigned 

To  some  old  wliining  beggar  in  the  street. 
Whose  soul  shall  cross,  while  mine  shall  stay  behind. 


I  The  coin  referred  to  in  this  sonnet  was  a  modem  Greek  piece 
of  five  lepta,  rather  smaller  than  a  halfpenny,  and  bearing  the  word 
Obolos  on  the  reverse. 


76 


ACHERON 

WHERE  rolls  in  silent  speed  through  cave  on  cave 
Soul -freighted  Acheron,  and  no  other  light 
Evokes  the  rocks  from  an  eternal  night 
Than  the  pale  phosphorescence  of  the  wave, 

Shall  men  not  meet,  and  have  one  chance  to  crave 
Forgiveness  for  rash  deeds  —  one  chance  to  right 
Old  earthly  quarrels,  and,  in  Death's  despite, 

Unsay  the  said,  and  heal  the  pang  they  gave  ? 

See,  see  !  there  looms  from  yonder  soul-filled  barque 

That  passes  ours,  a  long-loved,  long-lost  face, 
And  with  a  cry  we  stretch  our  ghostly  arms. 

But  heeding  not,  they  whirl  into  the  dark, 

Bound  for  a  sea  beyond  all  time  and  space, 
Which  neither  life  nor  love  nor  sunlight  warms. 


77 


THE  PHANTOM  SHIT 

WK  touch  Life's  shore  as  swimmers  from  a  wreck 
Who  shudder  at  the  cheerless  land  they  reach, 
And  find  their  comrades  gathered  on  the  beach 
Watching  a  fading  sail,  a  small  white  speck  — 

The  phantom  ship,  upon  whose  ample  deck 

There  seemed  awhile  a  homeward  place  for  each. 
The  crowd  still  wring  their  hands  and  still  beseech. 

But  see,  it  fades,  in  spite  of  prayer  and  beck. 

Let  those  who  hope  for  brighter  shores  no  more 

Not  moum,  but  turning  inland,  bravely  seek 
What  hidden  wealth  redeems  the  iron  shore. 

The  strong  must  build  stout  cabins  for  the  weak  ; 

Must  plan  and  plough  ;  must  sow  and  reap  and  store  ; 
For  grain  takes  root,  though  all  seems  bare  and  bleak. 


78 


MY  OWN  HEREAFTER 

WHERE  angel  trumpets  hail  a  brighter  sun 
With  their  superb  alarum,  and  the  flash 
Of  angel  cymbals  dazzles  as  they  clash, 
Seek  not  to  find  me,  when  my  sands  are  run  ; 

Nor  where,  in  mail  of  sapphire  every  one, 

God's  sentries  man  the  walls,  that  Light's  waves  wash 
With  an  eternal  angel -heard  faint  plash  — 

But  in  some  book  of  sonnets,  when  day's  done. 

There  in  the  long  June  twilight,  as  you  read, 

You  will  encounter  my  immortal  parts, 
If  any  such  I  have,  from  earth's  clay  freed ; 

Divested  of  their  sins,  to  be  the  seed 

Perhaps  of  some  slight  good  in  other's  hearts. 
That  is  the  only  after-life  I  need. 


79 


WINE  OF  OMAR   KHAYYAM 

HE  rode  the  flame  winged  dragon  steed  of  'ihought 
Through  Space  and  Darkness,  seeking  Ileav'nand  Hell 
And  searched  the  furthest  stars  where  souls  might  dwell 
To  find  God's  justice;  and  in  vain  he  sought. 

Then,  looking  on  the  dusk-eyed  girl  who  brought 
His  dream  filled  wine  beside  his  garden  well. 
He  said  :  "  Her  kiss  ;  the  wine-jug's  drowsy  spell ; 

Bulbul ;  the  roses  ;  death  ;  —  all  else  is  naught : 

"  So  drink  till  that."  —  What,  drink,  because  the  abyss 

Of  Nothing  waits  ?  because  there  is  for  man 
But  one  swift  hour  of  consciousness  and  light  ? 

No.  —  Just  because  we  have  no  life  but  this. 

Turn  it  to  use;  be  noble  while  you  can  ; 
Search,  help,  create  ;  then  pass  into  the  night. 


80 


A  FLIGHT  FROM  GLORY 

ONCE,  from  the  parapet  of  gems  and  glow, 
An  Angel  said,  "  O  God,  the  heart  grows  cold 
On  these  eternal  battlements  of  gold, 
Where  all  is  pure,  but  cold  as  virgin  snow. 

"  Here  sobs  are  never  heard ;  no  salt  tears  flow  ; 

Here  there  are  none  to  help  — nor  sick  nor  old  ; 

No  wrong  to  fight,  no  justice  to  uphold  : 
Grant  me  Thy  leave  to  live  man's  life  below." 

"  And  then  annihilation  ? "  God  replied. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Angel,  "  even  that  dread  price; 
For  earthly  tears  are  worth  eternal  night." 

"  Then  go,"  said  God.  —  The  Angel  opened  wide 

His  dazzling  wings,  gazed  back  on  Heaven  thrice, 
And  plunged  for  ever  from  the  walls  of  Light. 


8i 


FIREFLIES 

Ni)\v  one  by  one  the  live  winged  sparks  of  night, 
l^ike  souls  allowed  to  wander  as  they  please 
Througli  old  loved  haunts,  go  by  between  the  trees 
In  silent  zigzags  of  alternate  light; 

And  grow  in  number,  bodiless  and  bright, 
So  that  the  eye,  too  slow  to  count  them,  sees 
Nothing  but  fire  all  round ;  till  by  degrees 

Quenched  in  the  dawn,  they  vanish  from  the  sight. 

And  those  more  subtle  sparks,  which  they  recall. 
The  countless  souls  with  which  regret  and  love 
Once  peopled  Death's  great  night,  are  they  quenched  too  ? 

Has  Thought's  strong  dawn,  which  searches  into  all. 

Reached  even  them,  unpeopling  Heaven  above. 
To  leave  us  nothing  but  the  empty  blue  ? 


82 


ALL  SOULS'  DAY 


ALL  Souls'  Day's  wintry  light  is  on  the  wane ; 
The  Tuscan  furrows  darken  deeper  brown : 
And  still  the  sower,  ever  up  and  down, 
Is  hard  at  work,  broad  scattering  his  grain : 

As  since  dim  times,  again  and  yet  again 

(Beginning  with  old  nations  scarcely  known, 
Pelasgi  and  Etruscans)  he  has  thrown 

His  seed  upon  this  old  Italic  plain. 

And  what  became  of  all  those  shadowy  dead 

Who  sowed  their  wheat,  built  Cyclopean  walls 
And  left  their  lives  unwritten  on  man's  scrolls  ? 

Just  what  became  of  what  they  sowed  for  bread  — 

Of  grain  that  breeds  fresh  grain  that  falls  and  falls : 
Earth  had  their  bones :  and  who  shall  find  their  souls  ? 


83 


II 

WHAT  heavens  that  grow,  what  hells  that  still  expand, 
Would  hold  the  close-packed  souls  of  all  who  found 
Earth's  bread  or  sweet  or  bitter,  and  were  bound 
In  sheaves  of  shadow  by  the  silent  hand  — 

The  close -packed  souls  of  every  time  and  land  ; 

Millions  of  millions  mingled  with  the  ground  ; 

Of  all  the  mounded  mummy -dust  all  round; 
Who,  back  on  earth,  would  fight  for  room  to  stand, 

Nor  find  his  square  foot  each  ? —  But  dusk  has  grown  ; 

The  fields  are  empty  ;  day  is  dying  fast ; 
And,  save  one  figure,  all  is  grey  and  lone ; 

The  figure  of  the  sower  who  has  cast 

Wheat  for  the  quick  where  countless  dead  have  sown. 
And  passes  ghostlike  on  his  way  at  last. 


84 


THE  WRECK  OF  HEAVEN 

I 

1HAD  a  vision :  naught  for  miles  and  miles 
But  shattered  columns,  shattered  walls  of  gold, 
And  precious  stones  that  from  their  place  had  roll'd, 
And  lay  in  heaps,  with  litter'd  golden  tiles ; 

While,  here  and  there,  amid  the  ruined  piles 
Of  gold  and  sardius,  and  their  sparkling  mould, 
Wild  tufts  of  amaranth  had  taken  hold. 

Scenting  the  golden  desert  like  sweet  isles. 

And  not  one  soul,  and  not  one  step  nor  sound. 

Until  there  started  up  a  haggard  head 
Out  of  the  gold,  from  somewhere  underground. 

Wildly  he  eyed  me  and  the  wreck  all  round : 

"  Who'rt  thou  ?  "  quoth  I.     He  shrilled  a  laugh  and  said ; 
"  The  last  of  souls.     I  haunt  this  dazzling  mound." 


85 


II 


AY,  ay,  the  gates  of  pearl  are  crumbling  fast ; 
The  walls  of  beryl  topple  stone  by  stone ; 
The  throngs  of  souls  in  white  and  gold  are  gone; 
The  jasper  pillars  lie  where  they  were  cast; 

The  roofless  halls  of  gold  are  dumb  and  vast ; 

The  courts  of  jacinth  are  for  ever  lone  ; 

Through  shattered  chrysolite  the  blind  winds  moan  ; 
And  topaz  moulders  into  earth  at  last. 

And  earth  is  the  reality  :  its  hue 

Is  brown  and  sad ;  its  face  is  hard  to  till ; 
Upon  man's  brow  the  sweat  must  hang  like  dew. 

But  grain  takes  root,  in  valley,  plain  and  hill, 
Tho'  never  Heaven's  amaranth  here  grew. 
And  grain  breeds  grain,  and  more  and  more  grain  still. 


86 


V 

MISCELLANEOUS 


WHAT  THE  SONNET  IS 

FOURTEEN  small  broidered  berries  on  the  hem 
Of  Circe's  mantle,  each  of  magic  gold ; 
Fourteen  of  lone  Calypso's  tears  that  roll'd 
Into  the  sea,  for  pearls  to  come  of  them ; 

Fourteen  clear  signs  of  omen  in  the  gem 
With  which  Medea  human  fate  foretold ; 
Fourteen  small  drops,  which  Faustus,  growing  old. 

Craved  of  the  Fiend,  to  water  Life's  dry  stem. 

It  is  the  pure  white  diamond  Dante  brought 

To  Beatrice  ;  the  sapphire  Laura  wore 
When  Petrarch  cut  it  sparkling  out  of  thought ; 

The  ruby  Shakespeare  hewed  from  his  heart's  core ; 

The  dark,  deep  emerald  that  Rossetti  wrought 
For  his  own  soul,  to  wear  for  evermore. 


89 


WINTER 

Now  is  the  time  when  Nature  may  display 
Her  frosty  jewelry  in  ail  men's  eyes, 
And  every  breeze  that  through  the  brushwood  sighs 
Brings  down  her  brilliants  in  a  glittering  spray. 

Like  drops  of  blood  upon  the  snow -strewn  way, 
The  crimson  berries  lie,  the  robins'  prize ; 
While,  in  the  leafless  woods,  the  poor  man  tries 

To  find  some  faggots  for  the  bitter  day. 

On  every  sleeping  pool  the  winter  fits 

With  unseen  hand  a  strong  and  glassy  lid; 
The  frightened  fish  beneath  the  skater  flits, 

And  quaking,  in  the  lowest  depths  lies  hid; 
And  old  King  Christmas  at  his  revel  sits. 
Where  all  whom  hunger  pinches  not  are  bid. 


90 


SONNET  GOLD 


WE  get  it  from  Etruscan  tombs,  hid  deep 
Beneath  the  passing  ploughshare ;  or  from  caves 
Known  but  to  Prospero,  where  pale -green  waves 
Have  rolled  the  wreck-gold,  which  the  mermaids  keep 

And  from  the  caverns,  where  the  gnomes  up -heap 
The  secret  treasures,  which  the  Earth's  dwarf  slaves 
Coin  in  her  bosom,  till  the  red  gold  paves 

Her  whole  great  heart,  where  only  poets  peep ; 

Or  from  old  missals,  where  the  gold  defies 

Time's  hand,  in  saints'  bright  aureoles,  and  keeps. 
In  angels'  long  straight  trumpets,  all  its  flash; 

But  chiefly  from  the  crucible,  where  lies 

The  alchymist's  pure  dream-gold.  —  While  he  sleeps 
The  poet  steals  it,  leaving  him  the  ash. 


91 


II 

WHAT  shall  we  make  of  sonnet  gold  for  men  ? 
The  dove-wreathed  cup  some  youth  to  I'hryne  gave  ? 
Or  dark  Locusta's  phial  which  shall  have 
Chiselled  all  round  it.  snakes  from  Horror's  den  ? 

Or  that  ill  ring,  which  sank  in  fathoms  ten, 

When  Faliero  spoused  the  Venice  wave  ? 

Or  Inez'  funeral  crown,  the  day  the  grave 
Showed  her  for  coronation,  all  myrrh  then  ? 

The  best  to  make  would  be  a  hilt  of  gold 

For  Life's  keen  falchion,  —  like  a  dragon's  head 
Fierce  and  fantastic,  massive  in  your  hold  ; 

But  oft  our  goldsmith's  chisel  carves,  instead, 

A  fretted  shrine,  for  sorrows  that  are  old 
And  passions  that  are  sterile,  or  are  dead. 


92 


OBERON'S  LAST  COUNCIL 

I 

IF,  on  some  woodland  lawn,  you  see  a  ring 
Of  darker  hue  upon  the  paler  grass  — 
The  strange  green  growth  which  children  as  they  pass 
Still  tell  each  other  is  a  fairy  thing 

Left  by  the  Elves  o'er-night  —  let  your  soul  cling 
To  the  sweet  thought  that  there  the  Elf  King  was 
With  all  his  crew  at  dawn  ;  but  that,  alas ! 

They  met  their  for  their  last,  last  gathering. 

For  they  are  fled:  and  though  the  sunshine  still 

Dances  in  flecks,  as  dance  the  leaves  above, 
And  still  the  squirrel  nibbles  and  the  mouse. 

The  little  folk  are  gone  who  used  to  fill 

The  hazel  copses  where  the  wild  wood -dove 
With  cross -laid  twigs  still  builds  her  breezy  house. 


93 


II 

HE  called  a  last  assembly  of  the  Elves. 
Hundreds  of  Fairies  in  the  forest  met 
Round  one  huge  oak-tree  —  Sprites  of  dry  and  wet, 
Pixies  and  Imps,  and  every  gnome  that  delves: 

And  Oberon  said:  "  We  lurk  by  tens  and  twelves, 
Starved  in  the  woods.     Man's  faith  —  our  food  as  yet 
Feeds  us  no  more ;  the  F"airies'  sun  has  set : 

We  are  but  shadows  of  our  former  selves. 

" 'Tis  time  to  leave  the  woods  and  we  must  part. 

When  faith  quite  ends  —  so  say  the  High  Decrees  — 
Then  Death  will  strike  us  with  his  icy  dart. 

"  Ixjng  have  we  nestled  in  the  hearts  of  trees  ; 

Now  we  must  nestle  in  the  Poet's  heart  — 
The  only  place  where  fairies  never  freeze." 


94 


IN  MEMORIAM 

MARSTON,  mourn  not;  Rossetti  is  not  dead, 
Though  chill  as  clay  is  now  his  shrouded  brow 
Nor  grudge  the  grave  the  flesh  it  gathers  now 
The  soul  remains,  to  live  on  earth  instead. 

And  thou  that  wast  his  friend,  if  e'er  I  said 
A  word  in  harshness,  hear  me  disavow. 
While  such  small  wreath  as  I  can  wreathe  I  throw 

Upon  the  stone  that  covers  now  his  head. 

The  wintry  breath  of  Azrael  hath  swept 

A  green  leaf  to  the  heap  of  bygone  leaves 
Where  Alighieri  and  where  Shakespeare  lie. 

Mourn  not.     Each  day  some  brother  dies  unwept, 

But  he  for  whom  the  distant  stranger  grieves, 
Outlives  mere  life ;  for  men  he  doth  not  die. 

April  14,  1882. 


95 


ROMAN  BATHS 

THERE  were  some  Koman  baths  where  we  spent  hours 
Immense  and  lonely  courts  of  rock -like  brick, 
All  overgrown  with  verdure  strong  and  thick, 
And  girding  sweet  wild  lawns  all  full  of  flowers. 

One  day,  beneath  the  turf,  green  with  the  showers 

Of  all  the  centuries  since  Genseric, 

They  found  rich  pavements  hidden  by  Time's  trick, 
Adorned  with  tritons,  dolphins,  doves  like  ours. 

So,  underneath  the  surface  of  To-day, 

Lies  Yesterday,  and  what  we  call  the  Past, 
The  only  thing  which  never  can  decay. 

Things  bygone  are  the  only  things  that  last : 

The  Present  is  mere  grass,  quick -mown  away  ; 
The  Past  is  stone,  and  stands  for  ever  fast. 


96 


SPRING 

THERE  lurks  a  sadness  in  the  April  air 
For  those  who  note  the  fate  of  earthly  things ; 
A  dreamy  sense  of  what  the  future  brings 
To  those  too  good,  too  hopeful  or  too  fair. 

An  underthought  of  heartache,  as  it  were, 

Blends  with  the  pjean  that  the  new  leaf  sings ; 
And,  as  it  were,  a  breeze  from  Death's  great  wings 

Shakes  down  the  blossoms  that  the  fruit-trees  bear. 

The  tide  of  sap  flows  up  the  forest  trees  ; 
The  birds  exult  in  every  bough  on  high ; 
The  ivy  bloom  is  full  of  humming  bees ; 

But  if  you  list,  you  hear  the  latent  sigh  ; 

And  each  new  leaf  that  rustles  in  the  breeze 
Proclaims  the  boundless  mutability. 


97 


TO  PHI  LI  r  MAKSTON 

To  walk  in  darkness  through  the  sunlit  wood, 
And  know  no  leaves  but  dead  ones  on  the  ground, 
While  Spring's  young  green  is  waving  all  around, 
And  joyous  Nature  spurns  her  widowhood  ; 

To  have  no  share  in  each  successive  mood 
Of  wayward  Day,  by  Night  for  ever  bound  ; 
To  know  the  Morn  but  by  the  growing  sound. 

Eve  by  its  chill,  not  by  its  Sunset  flood  : 

Such  is  thy  portion  in  this  world  of  light. 

Where  only  voices  —  more  like  souls  set  free 
Than  living  men  —  surround  thee  in  thy  plight. 

God  said  from  out  the  Darkness,  "  Let  Light  be  ;" 
And  Day  sprang  dazzling  from  the  lap  of  Night. 
Alas,  my  Friend,  He  said  it  not  for  thee. 


98 


OXFORD 

So  you  will  see  what  I  can  see  no  more ; 
The  old  black  stone,  all  round  the  bright  young  grass ; 
The  towers,  panelled  halls,  and  fair  stained  glass  ; 
The  sunlit  turf  through  some  old  oaken  door ; 

And  that  green  river  with  the  sedgy  shore  ; 
The  motley  barges,  and  the  huddled  mass 
Of  breathless  cheerers,  as  the  swift  eights  pass 

In  desperate  race,  with  long  bent  feathering  oar. 

The  years  go  by,  and  all  is  fading  fast ; 

The  crowd  in  cap  and  gown  are  mere  ghosts  now 
And  that  bright  river  glides  into  the  Past ; 

The  colleges  and  elm -girt  towers  grow 

Each  year  more  unsubstantial  than  the  last, 
Like  fair  dissolving  views  that  lose  their  glow. 


99 


MUSSET'S   I,()UIS   IVOR 

ASLEEP,  a  little  fisher-girl  one  day 
Lay  on  the  shingle  in  an  old  boat's  shade; 
Her  skirt  was  tattered,  and  the  sea-breeze  played 
With  her  brown  loosened  hair  a  ceaseless  play. 

A  poet  chanced  to  pass  as  there  she  lay ; 

Her  sun -burnt  face,  her  tatters  he  surveyed ; 

A  golden  coin  between  her  lips  he  laid. 
And,  letting  her  sleep  on,  he  went  his  way. 

What  came  of  that  gold  windfall  ?     Did  it  breed 

Those  long-loved  coins  which  patient  thrift  can  show 
With  proud  pure  smile,  to  meet  the  household  need  ? 

Or  stolen  gold  ?  or  those  curst  coins  which  grow 

Each  year  more  sought,  more  loathed,  and  are  the  meed 
Of  women's  loveless  kisses  ?     Who  can  know  ? 


ICO 


PROMETHEAN  FANCIES 

I 

WHEN  on  to  shuddering  Caucasus  God  pours 
The  phials  of  his  fury  hoarded  long, 
Plunging  in  each  abyss  his  fiery  prong 
As  if  to  find  a  Titan ;  when  loud  roars 

The  imprisoned  thunder  groping  for  the  doors 

Of  never-ending  gorges ;  when,  among  . 

The  desperate  pines,  Storm  howls  his  battle  song  — 

Then  wakes  Prometheus,  and  his  voice  upsoars. 

Yea,  when  the  midnight  tempest  hurries  past, 

There  sounds  within  its  wail  a  wilder  wail 
Than  that  which  tells  the  anguish  of  the  blast ; 

And  when  the  thunder  thunders  down  the  gale, 

A  laugh  within  its  laugh  tells  woe  so  vast 
That  God's  own  angels  in  the  darkness  quail. 


lOI 


II 

PKOMKTHKUS—  none  may  see  him.     Hut  at  night, 
When  heaven's  bolt  has  made  some  forest  flare- 
On  Caucasus,  and  when  the  broad  red  glare 
Flushes  from  crag  to  crag  at  infinite  height, 

Staining  the  snow,  or  running  ruby -bright 
Along  the  myriad  glacier  crests  to  scare 
The  screaming  eagles  out  of  black  chasms,  where. 

But  half  dislodged,  the  dark  still  grapples  tight : 

Then  on  some  lurid  monstrous  wall  of  rock 

The  Titan's  shadow  suddenly  appears 
Gigantic,  flickering,  vague  ;  and,  storm-unfurled, 

Seems  still  to  brave,  with  hand  that  dim  chains  lock 

Midway  in  the  unendingness  of  years, 
The  Author  of  the  miscreated  world. 


102 


GOLD  OF  MIDAS 

THE  poet  is  the  alchymist  of  thought  — 
The  Midas  whose  too  sovereign  touch,  of  old, 
Transmuted  every  trifle  into  gold, 
And  gilt  the  very  clay  the  potter  wrought. 

No  common  mountain  torrent  he  has  sought 

And  bathed  his  soul  in,  but  has  straightway  roll'd 
Auriferous  sands ;  no  maze  where  he  has  stroll'd, 

But  gleams  with  ponderous  ingots  rich  as  aught 

That  Midas  ever  gilt.  —  But  woe,  thrice  woe, 

If,  locked  in  his  own  gold,  he  should  forget, 
Like  that  same  Midas,  how  and  why  we  live : 

He  craved  a  Universe  of  gold;  and  lo, 

The  bread  became  a  nugget  as  he  ate, 
And  filled  his  mouth  with  all  that  gold  can  give. 


103 


BAUDELAIRE 

A   Paris  gutter  of  the  good  old  times, 
Black  and  putrescent  in  its  stagnant  bed, 
Save  where  the  shamble  oozings  fringe  it  red, 
Or  scaffold  trickles,  or  nocturnal  crimes. 

It  holds  dropped  gold ;  dead  flowers  from  tropic  climes  ; 

Gems  true  and  false,  by  midnight  maskers  shed ; 

Old  pots  of  rouge;  old  broken  phials  that  spread 
Vague  fumes  of  musk,  with  fumes  from  slums  and  slimes. 

And  everywhere,  as  glows  the  set  of  day. 

There  floats  upon  the  winding  fetid  mire 
The  gorgeous  iridescence  of  decay : 

A  wavy  film  of  colour,  gold  and  fire, 

Trembles  all  through  it  as  you  pick  your  way, 
And  streaks  of  purple  that  are  straight  from  Tyre. 


104 


NIGHT 

THOU  heedest  not,  inexorable  Night, 
Whether  besought  from  some  lone  prison  cell 
To  stay  thy  hours,  by  one  whose  dying  knell 
Will  sound  not  later  than  return  of  light, 

Or  prayed  to  urge  them  by  some  suffering  wight 
Who  notes  their  creep  as  wearily  and  well 
As  men  not  for  eternity  in  Hell 

May  note  the  purging  flames'  decreasing  height. 

Hark  1  in  the  street  I  hear  a  distant  sound 

Of  music  and  of  laughter  and  of  song. 
As  go  a  band  of  revellers  their  round  : 

And  under  prison -walls  it  comes  along, 

And  under  dull  sick-rooms,  where  moans  abound  ; 
For  who  shall  grudge  their  strumming  to  the  strong  ? 


105 


THE  DEATH  OK  TUCK 

I 

IKEAR  that  Puck  is  dead  —  it  is  so  long 
Since  men  last  saw  him  — dead  with  all  tiie  rest 
Of  that  sweet  elfin  crew  that  made  their  nest 
In  hollow  huts,  where  hazels  sing  their  song; 

Dead  and  for  ever,  like  the  antique  throng 

The  elves  replaced ;  the  Dryad  that  you  guessed 
Behind  the  leaves;  the  Naiad  weed-bedressed; 

The  leaf -eared  Faun  that  loved  to  lead  you  wrong. 

Tell  me,  thou  hopping  Robin,  hast  thou  met 

A  little  man,  no  bigger  than  thyself, 
Whom  they  call  Puck,  where  woodland  bells  are  wet  ? 

Tell  me,  thou  Wood -Mouse,  hast  thou  seen  an  elf 

Whom  they  call  Puck,  and  is  he  seated  yet, 
Capped  with  a  snail -shell,  on  his  mushroom  shelf? 


io6 


II 

THE  Robin  gave  three  hops,  and  chirped,  and  said : 
"  Yes,  I  knew  Puck,  and  loved  him  ;  though  I  trow 
He  mimicked  oft  my  whistle  chuckling  low; 
Yes,  I  knew  cousin  Puck ;  but  he  is  dead. 

"  We  found  him  lying  on  his  mushroom  bed  — 
The  Wren  and  I  —  half  covered  up  with  snow, 
As  we  were  hopping  where  the  berries  grow. 

We  think  he  died  of  cold.     Ay,  Puck  is  fled." 

And  then  the  Wood-Mouse  said  :  "  We  made  the  Mole 

Dig  him  a  little  grave  beneath  the  moss. 
And  four  big  Dormice  placed  him  in  the  hole. 

"  The  Squirrel  made  with  sticks  a  little  cross  ; 

Puck  was  a  Christian  elf,  and  had  a  soul ; 
And  all  we  velvet  jackets  mourn  his  loss." 


107 


TO  FLORENCE  SNOW 

I'UR    THE    FI.Y-LKAK    UK    A    HOOK    OK    SONNETS 

I    SEN  I)  these  berries  which  in  sweet  woods  grew  ; 
Small  crimson  crans,  on  which  has  slept  the  deer; 
Spiked  red-dropt  butcher's  broom,  the  bare  foot's  fear; 
Blue  berries  of  the  whortle  wet  with  dew; 

And  gummy  berries  of  the  tragic  yew ; 

With  mistletoe,  —  each  bead  a  waxen  tear; 

And  ripe  blue  sloes  that  mark  a  frosty  year ; 
And  hips  and  haws,  from  lanes  that  Keats  once  knew. 

I  know  not  if  the  berries  of  the  West 

Are  such  as  those  of  Europe;  but  I  know 
That  Kansas  breeds  a  flower,  which,  unguessed, 

Can  climb  up  prison-walls,  and  gently  grow- 
Through  prison -bars  where  suffering  has  its  nest, 
And  where  the  wingless  hours  crawl  sad  and  slow. 


1 08 


TO  A  HANDFUL  OF  MUMMY  WHEAT 

Thou'rt  older  than  would  be  that  pale  gold  wheat 
Which,  on  a  harvest  evening,  in  the  youth 
Of  fields  of  corn,  the  wistful  gleaner  Ruth 
Saw  in  the  fragrant  twilight  at  her  feet. 

Wave  after  wave  of  human  life  has  beat 
Against  the  silent  tomb  in  which,  like  truth 
Locked  in  dark  error,  thou  hast  braved  the  tooth 

Of  nibbling  Time,  safe  in  a  mummy's  sheet. 

Go  forth,  go  forth,  that  once  again  the  sun 

May  kiss  thee  into  ripeness,  and  the  breath 
Of  morn  make  ripples  in  thy  golden  dun  ; 

And  multiply  till  every  grain  beneath 

My  finger,  fills  a  garner ;  so  that  none 
May  say  that  in  the  Past  there  is  but  Death. 


109 


ON  THE  FLY-LEAF  OF   DANTE'S  "VITA 
NUOVA" 

THERE  was  a  tall  stern  Exile  once  of  old, 
Who  paced  Verona's  streets  as  dusk  shades  fell, 
With  step  as  measured  as  the  vesper  bell, 
And  face  half-hidden  by  his  hood's  dark  fold ; 

One  whom  the  children,  as  he  grimly  stroll'd. 
Would  shrink  from  in  the  fear  of  a  vague  spell, 
Crying,  "  The  man  who  has  been  down  to  Hell," 

Or  hanging  in  his  footsteps,  if  more  bold. 

This  little  book  is  not  by  that  stern  man. 

But  by  his  younger  self,  such  as  he  seems 
In  Giotto's  fresco,  holding  up  the  flower, 

Thinking  of  her  whose  hand,  by  Fate's  strange  plan, 

He  never  touched  on  earth,  but  who,  in  dreams. 
Oft  led  him  into  Heaven  for  an  hour. 


I  lO 


FAITH 

THERE  is  a  startling  legend  that  is  known 
To  Spanish  scholars :  how  the  fertile  land 
For  years  was  ravaged  by  a  robber  band, 
Led  by  a  Knight  with  visor  ever  down ; 

And  how,  at  last,  when  he  was  overthrown. 
The  shape  which  made  so  desperate  a  stand 
And  quivered  still,  was  found  to  be,  when  scann'd, 

A  suit  of  armour,  empty  heel  to  crown. 

Nought  fights  like  Emptiness.  —  Beneath  the  veil 

Of  Islam's  warlike  Prophet,  from  Bagdad 
To  Roncevaux,  it  made  the  nations  quail ; 

And  once,  as  Templar  and  Crusader  clad, 

It  shook  the  world.  —  Ev'n  now.  Faith's  empty  mail 
Still  writhes  and  struggles  with  the  life  it  had. 


1 1 


FUMES  OF  CHARCOAL 
SfpUmber,  1889 

I 

DEATH  has  no  shape  more  stealthy.  —  There  you  sit, 
With  all  unchanged  around  you,  in  your  chair, 
Watching  the  wavy  tremor  of  the  air 
Above  the  little  brazier  you  have  lit, 

While  Death  begins  to  amorously  flit 
In  silent  circles  round  you,  till  he  dare 
Touch  with  his  lips,  and,  crouching  o'er  you  there. 

Kiss  you  all  black,  and  freeze  you  bit  by  bit. 

Yet  she  could  walk  upon  the  bracing  heath. 

When  steams  the  dew  beneath  the  morning  sun, 
And  draw  the  freshness  of  the  mountain's  breath  : 

Were  charcoal  fumes  more  sweet  as,  one  by  one. 

Life's  lights  went  out,  beneath  that  kiss  of  Death, 
And,  turning  black,  the  life-blood  ceased  to  run  ? 


112 


II 


IF  some  new  Dante  in  the  shades  below, 
While  crossing  that  wan  wood,  where  the  self  slain, 
Changed  into  conscious  trees,  soothe  their  dull  pain 
By  sighs  and  plaints,  as  tears  can  never  flow. 

Should  hear  an  English  voice,  like  west  wind  low. 
Come  from  the  latest  tree,  and,  letting  strain 
His  ear  against  its  trunk,  should  hear  quite  plain 

The  soul's  heart  tick  within,  though  faint  and  slow  : 

Then  let  him  ask  :  "O  Amy,  in  the  land 

Of  the  sweet  light  and  of  the  sweet  live  air. 
Did  you  ne'er  sit  beside  a  friend's  wheeled  bed, 

"  That  you  could  thus  destroy,  at  Hell's  command, 

All  that  he  envied  you,  and  choke  the  fair 
Young  flame  of  life,  to  dwell  with  the  wan  dead  ?" 


"3 


ON  THE  FLY-LEAF  OF  LEOPAKDl'S   I'OEMS 

TiiF.RK  was  a  hunchback  in  a  slavish  day, 
Crushed  out  of  shape  by  Heaven's  iron  weight, 
Who  made  the  old  Italic  string  vibrate 
In  Freedom's  harp,  on  which  few  dared  to  play  ; 

A  Titan's  soul  in  ^sop's  cripple  clay ; 

A  dwarf  Prometheus,  blasted  by  Jove's  hate, 
Who  scorned  the  God  that  held  him  locked  in  fate, 

And  called  the  world  the  mud  in  which  he  lay. 

And  mud  it  is ;  but  mud  which  can  be  tilled 

To  grow  the  wheat,  the  olive,  and  the  grape. 
And  fill  more  gamers  than  men's  hands  can  build. 

And  those  bare  tracts,  whence  all  would  fain  escape, 

Conceal,  perchance,  some  buried  urn  all  filled 
With  golden  Darics  stamped  with  a  winged  shape. 


114 


THE  GRAVE  OF  OMAR  KHAYYAM 

THEY  washed  his  body  with  a  wine  of  gold, 
And  wrapped  it  round,  to  meet  his  last  desire. 
In  leaves  of  vine,  whose  every  pale  green  spire 
Tightened  about  him  with  an  amorous  hold ; 

And  then  they  buried  him  in  vineyard  mould, 
Where  vintage  hymns  in  Summer's  dusk  expire, 
And  where  great  vine -roots  sucked  all  round  him  fire 

For  fiery  cups,  as  ages  o'er  him  roU'd. 

A  lethargy  creeps  o'er  us  on  this  spot 

Where  bulbul  warbles  on  Oblivion's  brink, 
And  all  that  man  should  live  for  is  forgot. 

The  wine-girl  floats  towards  us  with  her  cup ; 

Or  is  it  Azrael  with  darker  drink  ? 
Wake  up,  wake  up  ;  shake  free  thy  soul  ;  wake  up  I 


"5 


TU  MY  TORTUISE  ANANKfi 

SAY  it  were  true,  that  thou  outliv'st  us  all, 
O  footstool  once  of  Venus  ;  come,  renew 
Thy  tale  of  old  Greek  isles,  where  thy  youth  grew 
In  myrtle  shadow,  near  her  temple  wall ; 

Or  tell  me  how  the  eagle  let  thee  fall 

Upon  the  Greek  bard's  head,  from  heaven's  blue, 
And  Apathy  killed  Song.  —  And  is  it  true 

That  tliy  domed  shell  would  bear  a  huge  stone  hall  ? 

O  Tortoise,  Tortoise,  there  are  weights,  alack, 
Heavier  than  stone,  and  viewless  as  the  air, 
Which  none  have  ever  tried  upon  thy  back  ; 

Which,  ever  and  anon,  we  men  must  bear; 

Weights  which  would  make  thy  solid  cover  crack  ; 
And  how  we  bear  them,  let  those  ask  who  care. 


ii6 


EPILOGUE 

{WROUGHT  them  like  a  targe  of  hammered  gold 
On  which  all  Troy  is  battling  round  and  round  ; 
Or  Circe's  cup,  embossed  with  snakes  that  wound 
Through  buds  and  myrtles,  fold  on  scaly  fold  ; 

Or  like  gold  coins,  which  Lydian  tombs  may  hold, 
Stamped  with  winged  racers,  in  the  old  red  ground ; 
Or  twined  gold  armlets  from  the  funeral  mound 

Of  some  great  viking,  terrible  of  old. 

I  know  not  in  what  metal  I  have  wrought ; 

Nor  whether  what  I  fashion  will  be  thrust 
Beneath  the  clods  that  hide  forgotten  thought ; 

But  if  it  is  of  gold  it  will  not  rust ; 

And  when  the  time  is  ripe  it  will  be  brought 
Into  the  sun,  and  glitter  through  its  dust. 


PRINTED  BY 

SMITH  6-  SALE 

PORTLAND 

MAINE 


Thi«  book  ii  DUE  on  iht-  last 
dale  itatnped  below. 


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